


Disparity

by danceswithoutwolves



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Mild Gore, i have emotions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-19
Updated: 2015-06-19
Packaged: 2018-04-05 05:05:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4167051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/danceswithoutwolves/pseuds/danceswithoutwolves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Slit grabbed the sun while Nux clawed for the moon.</p><p>A driver's last thoughts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Disparity

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I am firmly entrenched in the "Slit and Nux are both alive what are you talking about" camp. But the urge to write this just seized me at 2 am, so here it is!

They said that time slowed down in your final moments. Nux understands, he thinks, as from the moment Rictus ripped the engine from the war rig and held it above his head, wreathed in flame and billowing smoke, a savage trophy, time has ebbed and flowed languidly as wet sand through his fingers. Details crystallize as this tiny sliver of History unfurls: the way the fire sears a livid afterimage into his retinas, the way the veins in Rictus’s broad neck flex and bulge as he cries his own name into the howling wind. Mesmerized he watches, and it is with wide-eyed wonder that he points at Capable, whispers for her to witness him. So enthralled is he by the blistering, primal violence, the crackle of flame and hallowed shriek of metal, that as he wrenches the wheel sideways to crash the war rig, naught but blissful tranquility blankets him.

Into unforgiving rock the vehicle flips sideways, machinery groaning a vital lament, tires raging protest; the sound of metal crunching against metal echoes against the canyon walls, and only distantly does Nux register the sensation of being thrown from the war rig. Jarring, brutal noise and ruthless blows against his skin vie for mastery of his attention before oblivion claims him.

 

When he awakes, the first thing he does is scream. The fragile sensation of calmness, distance, he wore in the face of Rictus has been shredded mercilessly, and reality sneers with stunning sharpness into his battered face. Merely a strangled croak slips past his lips rather than the anguished scream he feels aching to burst free, pure agony suppressing it. Hot wetness clings to his naked back and chest, and in an unwelcome surge of perspicacity he realizes that he is bathed in his own blood. Instinctually he tries to shift his torso, to wriggle away from the wreckage and clean off the spill of crimson, but as he does so a searing pain lances through his side, nerves set ablaze. With horror he drags his eyes downward to see a rod of metal embedded into his side. From the point where it vanishes into his flesh red seeps like a sunset. 

In vain he makes an effort to move his legs, but he soon realizes he cannot feel them; trailing his gaze further down his body, his legs disappear under the frame of the war rig. Weakly his ashen fingers dig into the sand, and with this one pathetic movement he truly knows no fate lies before him but death. Already his heartbeat grows fainter, the tips of his fingers cooler.

Such blistering fear seizes him suddenly, and he squeezes his glistening eyes shut against the thoughts assailing him. For he always has desired to die hard, and crashing the war rig during battle was certainly no soft death, but he had not done so in the name of Immortan Joe. No, he had breathed and bled defiance, but Valhalla does not open its gates to renegades, to traitors. However firmly Capable had assured him his manifest destiny lied elsewhere than dying in service of Immortan Joe, she could not understand. How foolish he had been to renounce his loyalties as a war boy; how he now wishes desperately that he could find some way, any way, to redeem himself. The gates of Valhalla open unquestionably to war boys who die hard, obedient to Immortan Joe with their last gasping breaths. Who knows if they open to other warriors? 

A single tear slips from the corner of his eye, its hot path stinging down his cheek. Even as he thinks of redemption, the thoughts come hollowly, shams of authenticity, for he cannot bring himself to regret shifting his allegiance to Furiosa and her cause, traitor-filth though that may make him.

Unbidden the image of Slit resurfaces before his eyes: lips curved back in scorn, venomous words spewed from that hateful mouth. Even more than Immortan’s snarl of “mediocre” had Slit’s words stung. And as Nux lies there feeling the life gradually drain from his body, hopelessly, desperately, he sends up a prayer, of sorts, to Slit. Who can tell if it reaches him, but damn everything if his last thoughts will not be of his lancer. At the beginning of everything they were together and it only makes sense to follow that to the very end.

 

_Hey, Slit. This is pretty…well, pretty bold. I know. Last time I saw you, you didn’t exactly think I was that ace._

_But I’m– oh gods, I’m dying and you’re just gonna have to witness me embarrass myself one more time before I go. Okay? You shouldn’t be surprised._

_I always thought, when you died hard, there’d just be this big sort of crash, probably some pain, but then it’s over. Didn’t expect this. Hope you went faster._

_I bet Valhalla’s fantastic. Shiny, chrome. I don’t think I’m going to be there with you. Since I met you I always thought we’d go to Valhalla together and now I don’t really know what’s going to happen and I’m scared, Slit. I’m fucking scared. I don’t want to go anywhere you’re not._

_If you don’t want to write my name on your brake pedal anymore that’s okay. Remember when we said we’d write our names on the pedals of our car in Valhalla? Your face had gotten sliced up pretty bad and Organic was asleep so we stole his needle ‘n thread. Right after you said how we’d fix up our car in Valhalla just like ours down here I stitched my thumb into your face. Just sewed it right in. And you got mad, you got wicked mad, but if anyone else had done that you’dve killed ‘em. That’s when I knew I wanted to die with you._

_With you. Not alone. Never alone—_

Frantically he sputters for breath but his lungs feel crushed and his eyelids fall heavily shut, and panic-stricken he tries to open them, but he cannot dredge up the strength to do so; terror coils around limbs he cannot feel, and lying there paralyzed and unseeing he knows not much time remains. With renewed urgency he pleads:

 

_I’m sorry. I traitored you and I still can’t tell if I regret that but I wish you were here. No. I wish I died with you. Hard. Fiery. Like the stories they told us as Pups._

_You know how Coma used to say his mother’d hug him and tell him “I love you”? And how Joe said it to Angharad? I don’t think it’s the same for us because you aren’t my family and what we’ve got isn’t just fucking, but I…_

Spots of inky darkness seep into his consciousness, fogginess threads its sinister fingers through his failing mind.

_I’ve wanted to say this to you for a while, and I guess if it’s not now then it’s never getting said._

_Slit._

_You’re my lancer._

_And I love you._

**Author's Note:**

> War Boys have made me feel so many things.  
> So. Many. Things.
> 
> Yours always,  
> danceswithoutwolves/grabsthesun xx


End file.
